


We Could Dream This Night Away

by Prince_of_Elsinore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Fluff, Gen, Gen Work, Heaven, Immortality, Light Angst, POV Sam Winchester, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sharing a Bed, gencest, waxing philosophical about the afterlife
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:26:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29306466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore
Summary: It doesn’t take Sam long to realize that Heaven doesn’t give you everything you want, but it does give you exactly what you need.Sam and Dean in Heaven. They road trip. They go to the beach. They build a cabin. They grow a garden. They share a bed. They even slow dance. They think about their lives, their afterlives, what it all means, and what they mean to each other.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 28
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I would be posting my first Supernatural fic in 2021, nor that it would be Gen, Fluff, and take place in heaven. I also told myself I'd never post another WIP. And yet, here we are! I loved the finale and haven't been able to stop thinking since about the perfect heaven, what it means, and what it might look like. So, here's my stab at it. This will be 3-4 chapters total. No promises about an update schedule. I'm very busy these days but this work is dear to me, so I'll try my best to keep chipping away at it.
> 
> Title from Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" because it makes me want to cry.

It doesn't take Sam long to realize that Heaven doesn't give you everything you want, but it does give you exactly what you need.

What he needs at first is to feel whole again, for the first time in decades. He needs to bask in it. Not to question it. He needs the swell of contentment in his chest, filling the hollow ache he's carried for so long he'd forgotten how it felt before it burrowed in behind his sternum. He gazes out at Heaven, the warm weight of his brother's arm slung over his shoulders— _home_ —and Sam feels purely, simply happy. It is an unfamiliar feeling.

It isn't that Sam didn't know happiness in the second half of his life. But every joy had mixed in it the taste of yearning. When his son spoke his first words, took his first steps. Earned his driver's license and then his high school diploma. _Dean, I wish you could see this._ Joy and the pang of longing had become so inextricably linked in his mind Sam had forgotten one was possible without the other. He'd forgotten it could be like this. Or maybe he'd never known. He can't recall a time in his life when he wasn't yearning for something.

 _Heaven_ , he thinks, and smiles.

***

They've been driving for hours—or maybe only minutes—when it finally hits him. Where he is, who's at his side. What it means.

He's been gazing at the scenery, sun-drenched pine forests and mountain streams, but now he can't take his eyes off of Dean. His crow's feet as he squints at the road, the little twist of his lips that always looks wry but which, Sam knows, means contentment. The relaxed slope of his shoulders, the healthy glow of his freckled skin—not like last time Sam had seen it, not at all. Sam can barely breathe.

He doesn't know how long he looks before Dean catches his eye. He's not sure if Dean knew he was looking or if he only just noticed. But he doesn't look surprised, or even questioning. He just looks straight back, green eyes sparkling, as a huge grin spreads over his face, easy as warm butter—and that, the memory of that grin, punches the air right out of Sam's lungs. Those too-rare grins and belly laughs that used to ring through the halls of their bunker, when they managed to catch a break, live a little, steal whatever moment of levity they could before the next crisis.

A small, disbelieving laugh escapes Sam's throat. This is real. This is Dean. They're in Heaven. This is forever.

And Sam wants to tell his brother—everything. How hard it was to drag himself through each day after Dean died. How he named his son after him, and how Dean Jr. made him so proud, would've made Dean proud, too. He'd inherited his uncle's taste in music, after all. Sam wants to fill him in on everything he missed. And he wants to tell him how much it means to be here next to him, feeling more at home in the passenger seat of the Impala than he ever did in the house where he raised his son, the house he filled with photos of all the people he'd lost but most especially Dean. He wants to tell him he loved his life but he missed Dean so goddamn much—but the words catch in his throat.

Sam sucks in air through his nose, lets it out careful. It can wait, he decides. After all, they have eternity.

Instead, he asks, "So, where are we going?" even though he couldn't care less about the answer just now.

Dean's still looking at him, drinking him in, not unlike those days—a lifetime ago—when they'd just gotten back on the road together to hunt down their father and a yellow-eyed demon. Only now, the fear—the hint of desperation that always shone in Dean's eyes back then, like he was afraid Sam would disappear if he dared look away—is gone.

Dean nods to himself, as if satisfied with whatever he's seen, and turns his attention back to the road. "Hadn't really thought about it yet. Where you wanna go?"

Dean's voice. How had he not paid attention to that before? Like gravel warmed by the sun. Like the rumble of an engine lulling him to sleep. Sam had never forgotten that sound, not really, but after a while, it became a memory of a memory. Accurate but distant, like a faded photograph. Washed out. It's almost a shock to his system how vibrant it sounds now, close in the comforting confines of the Impala.

Sam's so caught up in it that he barely processes the question. When he finally does— _I'm exactly where I want to be_ —all he can do is shrug and say, "Anywhere."

Dean raises an eyebrow at him. Assessing, not judging. He nods again. "Wherever the road takes us, then." After a moment he adds, "You wanna pick music?"

Sam laughs at that—a real laugh, not just a little huff—and shakes his head. "No. No, man. I want you to pick." He means it.

"Zeppelin IV," Dean says immediately. Sam laughs again.

He's more than happy to oblige.

***

They fill each other in little by little, on their drive to anywhere. Dean tells him about "Heaven Two-Point-Oh," about what Jack and Cass have done. Sam sends them a silent prayer of thanks.

He's surprised but oddly relieved when Dean tells him how he's spent his time so far. One long drive—but not even that long. Dean says it felt like a Sunday afternoon, even though he knows it was longer, when he thinks about the distances he covered and the landscapes he saw. He doesn't sound bothered by any of it.

"Were you at peace?" Sam has to be sure.

That small smile quirks up the corner of Dean's mouth again. "I was." He nods, and relief sinks into Sam, bone-deep. Dean adds, "I knew you were comin'. All I had to do was wait."

An old, familiar pang shoots through Sam's chest. He watches the asphalt disappearing under the hood of the Impala. "Man, wish I had that sort of perspective, all those years," he says. "I mean, I knew, or at least, I had faith. That we'd end up…" He clears his throat, swallows. "God, it was such a long time."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

The words are soft, but no less startling for it. Sam looks at his brother, but Dean's eyes are on the road, and for the first time they're clouded with something like remorse.

Sam can't have that. "No, it's okay, Dean. I just—" He licks his lips, huffs out air. Shakes his head, wills back the stinging in his eyes, the tingling of his sinuses. "I didn't know. That it would be… like this. I just wish I'd known—"

The weight of Dean's hand is sudden and warm against his neck. Sam presses into it on instinct, lets it ground him. God, he's missed this. Hasn't felt this in decades. Won't ever take it for granted again.

"Hey." Dean's voice is still soft, but now it's big-brother comforting. His thumb strokes the skin under Sam's ear. Sam can feel his callus catching on the fine hairs there. "None of that now. No need for that."

Sam draws in a deep breath. He knows Dean is right, knows he's not saying it out of discomfort. After their tearful goodbye in that godforsaken barn, after all they've been through, there's no going back to the old dread of "chick flick moments." This is something else. This is Dean telling him to let go. Regrets aren't going to change a thing, and it doesn't matter anyway. Because they're here now. They get to have this.

Sam closes his eyes, nods. "Yeah."

Dean keeps his hand on Sam's neck for a long while. When he finally places it back on the wheel, he looks thoughtful, even hesitant. He clears his throat.

"I did know I would see you again, Sam. So I was okay. But, uh, to be honest…" His eyes dart sidelong to Sam and back to the road. "I mean, you lived a whole lifetime. Decades. I thought maybe…"

Sam frowns, nonplussed as to what could make his brother nervous, here, now, in Heaven where everything seems so perfect.

"I wasn't expecting you to show up right away, necessarily," Dean continues. "I thought maybe you'd have found someone."

Sam scoffs, a knee-jerk reaction. Who on earth—or in Heaven—would he have gone to, if not Dean?

Then it hits him, what Dean's saying. He doesn't know whether he wants to slap him upside the head for being an idiot or hug him.

"Was there? Someone?" Dean's asking, and he sounds afraid but hopeful, warm, genuine. It's goddamn heartbreaking.

"For a while," Sam says.

A complicated mix of emotions passes over Dean's face: gladness and concern, relief and guilt.

"It didn't work out," Sam clarifies.

"I'm sorry," Dean finally says. Sam can tell he means it.

"It's okay." Sam means it, too. He made peace long ago with the fact that there was no grand romance in the cards for him, nor a less passionate form of domestic partnership. What he'd had with Dean Jr.'s mother had been healing, for both of them—she was a widower—but they quickly realized neither or them had much desire to mold themselves around a new partner, to accommodate new habits and tastes. They never fell into sync with one another, whether due to innate incompatibility or an unwillingness to try Sam wasn't sure and didn't really care. It was a mutual decision to be friends and co-parents, and it worked for them. It worked well.

Sam doesn't tell Dean all that now, but he will. Eventually. For now, what he says is, "I had a son."

Dean's eyes widen. He turns to Sam, gaze searching—and the smile that breaks over his features is like the first burst of sunshine after rain. "You had a son," he repeats, all reverence and awe. His eyes shine like sea glass. He forces them back to the road and closes them for a moment, lip trembling. A tear escapes down his cheek and he blinks, still smiling that radiant smile. "That's great, Sammy," he chokes out. "That's just—that's great."

It's all he seems able to say, so Sam leaves it there. He'll tell him the rest later.

***

They drive for what appears to be days, though Sam suspects it could be much longer. Day turns to night with what passes for regularity, but Sam has the feeling it's only because they expect it to. Like if they really wanted, they could stop time altogether.

Sometimes they drive through the night. Sometimes they stop and stargaze, like they used to. It had become rarer once they moved into the bunker, but they'd never stopped. They'd even stargazed on that last trip to Ohio, somewhere in the flats of Indiana before the final leg of the journey. When Sam remembers that, he inches closer to Dean on the hood of the Impala, so their shoulders knock together. Dean allows it without comment, and after a short while, brings his arm around Sam. Sam wonders if he's remembering, too.

Occasionally, Sam dozes off in the passenger's seat, though he doesn't generally feel the need to sleep. It's only that sometimes the familiar drone of the engine has a soporific effect, combined with the smell of leather and Dean and home. Then slipping into unconsciousness feels like being wrapped in a warm embrace.

It only occurs to him to ask if Dean needs to catch some shut-eye after several nights have passed. Sam has been loath to drive, refused even when Dean asked if he wanted to, but now when Sam offers to take the wheel it feels right. Like this is a way he can look after Dean. Dean doesn't object, though he appears as wide-awake as ever. He comments that it'll be the first time he's slept since getting to Heaven. That confirms for Sam that it isn't a real requirement, but rather a comfort. He suspects the same is true of food and drink, because it occurs to him he hasn't touched a morsel.

Sometimes they drive in contented silence for hours. Sometimes they lapse into conversation, picking up a thread they dropped who-knows-how-long back, as if they'd never stopped. Sometimes they reminisce. Sometimes Sam just looks at Dean, and sometimes he catches Dean looking. Sam has a developing theory that in Heaven, Dean _can't_ drive off the road.

Sometimes Sam forgets he's dead. It's not that he thinks he's still alive, but there are moments, fleeting and far between, when he feels so intensely present that everything else falls away. Once, they round a bend and emerge in a valley painted gold with evening light. The stone faces of the surrounding mountains glint orange and copper, and sunbeams filter down from the clouds like showers of glitter. Never in all of Sam's years driving across the continental U.S. has he seen something more beautiful. For a moment, he forgets where he is. He forgets that he's in a moving vehicle, that he's looking through a pane of glass. He might even forget his own name. He feels, oddly, that he is part of the landscape.

The spell breaks when Dean speaks. Sam can't tell how much time has passed.

***

The road ends at a beach. It's not a tropical shore, not like the Mexico vacation he always imagined taking with Dean, nor like the trips to the Keys he'd taken with Jr. In fact, it's a little overcast, the sea restless and gray. The wind makes gooseflesh rise on his arms, but Sam doesn't mind. He still feels warm inside, even if his skin is cold.

The shoreline stretches to the horizon in either direction. They pick one and begin walking, leaving their boots by the car. The sand is cold and soft as silk underfoot.

"So, this is the beach," says Dean, contemplating a gnarled piece of sun-bleached driftwood at the water's edge. "I always imagined more margaritas. Babes in bikinis." He doesn't sound disappointed, though. Sam watches him take it all in, breathe the salt fresh air.

He doesn't know how far they've walked when Dean speaks again.

"It's good, man. You getting to be a dad. A Dean Jr. out there in the world." Dean's mouth curls up at that, pleased, and Sam feels a rush of gratification. How many times did he wish he could tell his brother all about the son who shared his name? And now Dean knows. Sam can tell him everything.

"A Winchester," Dean continues, "not being jerked around by God or demons or any of that crap. Living free."

Sam nods, takes a lungful of cool sea air. "Yeah." He's thought the same thing, stunned sometimes by the magnitude of that victory. The impossibility of it. The end of the Winchester curse.

"I know that wouldn't've happened if I'd stuck around."

Sam stops in his tracks. The twist of Dean's lips has gone rueful, self-deprecating. "Dean." The word escapes him like a flinch, like a reflex.

Dean meets his gaze, reluctant, accepting.

"Dean," Sam repeats, because he's having trouble finding the words. Perhaps because it's not something he ever let himself think about too hard in life, not something he could find neat and nice answers to. He knows Dean is right, but accepting that felt too much like being glad he had died, and Sam could never, couldn't possibly—

"You gotta know," he says finally, voice hoarse under the low roar of the ocean and the rush of wind. "If I'd had a choice. That day, if I could've saved you. Even knowing the life I'd have, how it would turn out—it wouldn't even have been a question." His words are quiet but firm, like an incantation, as if speaking it could make it so.

Sometimes, when he was missing Dean so much he felt it would swallow him whole, Sam fervently thought he would give anything to have him back. But that wasn't entirely true, because he wouldn't give up his son. And yet, wanting Dean alive, when his son was just a hypothetical, when he wasn't yet real, was different than choosing one over the other. It had to be.

Sam needs Dean to know that he wanted to grow old with him, that he wanted to keep hunting—together, always together—that he wanted them to move into that bougie retirement home where they'd fought a banshee, wanted to care for Dean when he was arthritic and incontinent and cranky. Wanted to die by his side. That that future would have been worth every sacrifice. That he was never relieved at the way things turned out, even if he loved his son with every fiber of his being, even if he loved his life away from bloodshed and monsters. Even if, once he had them, he wouldn't give them up for anything.

Sam's not sure he can explain it to Dean, not sure if he can really comprehend it himself, how he can hold two truths at once: that he could never trade one Dean for the other. What he wanted was both of them, his brother and his son. Maybe he's just greedy like that.

Dean's regarding him carefully, and Sam thinks—hopes—he understands. If not now, maybe Sam can make him understand eventually.

Dean smiles sadly. "You didn't have a choice, Sam. No more trades. And that's a good thing."

Dean turns and continues up the beach. After a moment, Sam follows.

***

It's getting towards evening and the clouds have cleared just enough to tinge the sky pink when they spot a shape in the distance, just at the water's edge. As they approach Sam realizes it's a boat. A sailing vessel with a small cabin, tilted on its side, its mast leaning at a crazy angle. There's movement near it, too—a figure silhouetted against the orange glow of the sky. A person.

Sam realizes with a jolt that it's the first person he's seen in Heaven apart from Dean. They drove for days without seeing another soul, and he barely thought anything of it.

The figure comes towards them, raises its arms overhead. "Hello there!" a man's deep voice calls, carrying on the wind.

He's grizzled and gray, every bit the stereotypical fisherman in Sam's book. He introduces himself as Enrique, explains how he's run aground and needs to push back out with the tide. He nearly cries tears of gratitude when Sam and Dean agree to help.

"The kindness of strangers is a blessing. Thank the Mother Mary," he exclaims, clasping their hands. Sam and Dean exchange a look, but don't correct him. Sam has a feeling he ought to be thanking Jack.

Enrique's got a long, sturdy slat of wood stuck under the hull to act as a lever. Sam and Dean take their places on either side of it, freezing water swirling around their calves and soaking their jeans where they've rolled them just below their knees. Enrique takes his dinghy out with a line attached to the prow of the boat. He revs the engine and gives them the signal to push.

Brute force gets them nothing but a few slips and falls so they're soon wet all over. They shift tactics, try rocking the lever. Change its position, try again. They're moving in tandem, pushing down as hard as they can in even intervals, their breath coming in harsh pants at the exertion. It jostles memories loose in Sam's mind, of a time when moving in unison, without a word, perfectly in tune with each other, was a daily occurrence and often a matter of life or death. Sam realizes, too, that he hasn't used his muscles like this in years. For the first time, he truly appreciates that Heaven has given him his younger body back. He feels capable, in control, and connected to Dean.

Finally, inch by inch, the boat's nose turns towards the sea. Sam and Dean push at the stern, hands flat against the hull, side by side. Another minute of tugging from the dinghy, and the boat heaves forward, nosing into the surf, still careening wildly. Enrique tows it out a ways, and slowly it rights itself.

They watch as Enrique climbs aboard and steers her out to sea. They can just make out his parting wave of thanks in the evening light. They wave back.

"Good old Enrique," says Dean fondly. He turns to Sam. "Feels good, don't it? Helpin' a body out."

Sam grins. "Yeah." He's missed this Dean, always willing to lend a hand to a stranger, ready with a smile for friends old and new alike.

"Don't it seem odd though?" Dean asks after a moment. "A ship running aground in Heaven?"

Sam shrugs. "Maybe not. Maybe it ran aground so we could help him."

Dean frowns in thought. "Because he appreciates the kindness of strangers."

"And we like helping people."

Dean nods, contemplating. After a moment, he adds, "So, you don't think Enrique's just some Holodeck creation for our own Heaven? You think he's another soul?"

Sam considers it. "Yeah. I do. I don't think Heaven needs to make stuff like that up, y'know? I have a feeling it's the real deal."

"Yeah. Me too."

Sam smiles to himself. "A real 'Old Man and the Sea.'"

He expects Dean to call him a nerd, maybe with a fond little snort. He doesn't expect Dean to hum in agreement, eyes still trained on the boat, just a speck now against the orange glow of the horizon, and say, "The fish came alive, with his death in him."

"What?" Sam recognizes the quote, but he can't make sense of what it's doing coming from his brother's mouth.

Dean shoots him a sidelong glance, a scowl spoiling his meditative expression. "What? I read."

"Sure, but, what?"

Dean shrugs defensively. "I like Hemingway."

Sam grins in spite of himself. "You would."

Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion. "Why do I feel like I should be offended by that?"

"What? No, Dean—"

But Dean's already turned away and is stalking up the beach. Sam goes after him, and only realizes once he's out of the water how numb his toes are.

Part of Sam is relieved that he can still tick his brother off in Heaven, but a larger part of him just wants to smooth it over as quickly as possible.

"There's nothing wrong with liking Hemingway," he offers.

"Whatever." Before Sam can press the issue, Dean shivers and says, "Man, I'm soaked. Definitely not wearing these dry." He shrugs out of his jacket and outer shirt and lays them on the sand, apparently determined to drop the topic.

Sam sighs and follows suit. He has to admit he's glad to be rid of his waterlogged clothes.

Dean pulls his t-shirt over his head and pauses. "Hey, Sammy. Feel that?"

Sam's about to ask for clarification when he realizes the temperature feels about fifteen degrees warmer than it did moments ago. The wind has died down, too, leaving nothing but a balmy summer evening in its wake.

"Since when does it get warmer at night?" Dean asks.

"Since we got to Heaven?"

"Huh. Haven't noticed that yet."

"Well, maybe just because we're wet."

"You think the weather changes according to our needs?"

Sam shrugs. "Why not?"

Dean makes a "go figure" face and strips to his boxers before flopping down in the sand.

"Woah," he says. "Sammy, you gotta see this."

Sam finishes laying his jeans out flat and joins his brother, lying on his back so he can gaze up and—

He stops breathing for a moment. The sky overhead has darkened to a deep violet, a color he can't recall ever seeing in the sky except in paintings or Photoshopped pictures. The stars are out, too, and somehow it's the most stunning display Sam has seen yet. The night skies were always clear on their drive here, more stars visible than even when they used to stargaze on the open plains, no town or artificial light for miles. But now, it looks like some cosmic giant has scattered diamonds across the dome overhead, twinkling in swirls and whorls worthy of Van Gogh. Sam wants to cry.

"Holy shit," he breathes.

"Yeah." Dean's voice is quiet beside him.

For a long time, they lie there and stare up, at constellations and shooting stars streaking across the sky. The sand warms and molds to their bodies. They listen to the gentle waves, in and out. Sam breathes in time with them, and he knows without looking that next to him, Dean is too.

"You know, there's something else," Dean says after an indefinite stretch. Sam feels as if he's being roused from a pleasant dream, lingering warm and comfortable on the edge of sleep.

"Mm?"

Dean's voice is low like the rumble of the surf, so Sam has to focus on his words to distinguish them. "If I hadn'ta gone that day… I dunno if I ever woulda said those things to you. Told you… y'know. How I feel." He pauses. "That seems important."

Sam turns his head towards Dean. Dean is still looking up, his profile illuminated by the light of the stars. The eye visible to Sam reflects their shine like a polished stone, and from this close Sam can make out every individual eyelash framing it. _Dean_ , he thinks, _alive_. Or, not alive, not technically, but no less _real_ and _here_. He can't think of what to say, so he waits.

Dean goes on. "You know, I was thinking about that on my drive. When I was waiting for you. Felt like… I'd done everything I needed to." His eye searches the sky above, as if the right words will be spelled out in the stars. "If we'd grown old together, I might never've…" He sighs. "Man, I dunno. Doesn't matter now." After a moment he adds, "But I'm glad you got to hear it."

Sam swallows, blinks away the moisture that's gathered in his eyes. "I didn't say it back," he whispers.

Now Dean turns to look at him. "What?"

"I didn't—" He clears his throat. "I didn't tell you I love you back."

Dean lets out a warm huff of a laugh. "You didn't have to, Sam. I knew."

"Yeah, well. I knew that you loved me, too."

Dean's brow furrows. "Yeah, but. I didn't say it enough. God, it seems so stupid now, doesn't it? All the withholding. All the secrets. What was the point?"

Sam is quiet a moment. "I didn't say it enough, either."

"Well, we were a couple of emotionally constipated assholes." Dean hesitates. "Guess some of that's my fault. Always makin' fun of you."

The self-recrimination unsettles Sam. "Don't, Dean."

"Nah, I'm just sayin'. Just an observation. I know none of that matters now." Dean's got his big-brother tone on, trying to make everything better. "But, it does matter how you end things, you know? It's gotta. I mean—" he gestures widely, "it's not like we're stuck in amber here, y'know? At least I don't think so. I feel like me. We still think, and feel, and we can still—experience things, things we never got to on earth. Maybe we can still… change, here. But what I'm saying is that it helped me, Sam, to have that starting point. To get to say those things to you before I went."

Sam listens to his brother's earnest speech with a frown. He takes a deep breath. "I'm glad for you," is all he can manage.

"Yeah, well. I'm glad I went when I did, Sam. Not glad I left you," he rushes to add, "but, considering my options? I was in a good place. At last. That time with you… after Chuck. That was it for me, man. All I ever wanted." Sam can hear the smile in his voice. "Can't believe I got it, even for a little while. I mean, I'd finally let go of so much of my shit. And the last of it? I got to let go of it in that barn." He's gone quiet now, somber. "I'm saying I'm okay with it."

Sam is silent for a long moment. There's a lump in his throat he can't speak around.

"I wasn't," he forces out at last.

Dean doesn't answer immediately. He sighs softly. "I'm so sorry, Sam."

It's nothing but a whisper, but Sam can hear what his brother is trying to say, all the meaning crammed into those few words. How Dean wanted the same thing. To grow old together. To look after each other. The regret that he couldn't stay.

Sam swallows. "You have nothing to be sorry for. It wasn't your choice." He lets out a long exhale. "You know, it's ironic." Dean waits for him to go on. "It's just, when I was young… I always wondered who I was, y'know? Like, just me, just Sam. Away from hunting. Away from… the family."

Dean grunts. It sounds uneasy.

Sam sucks in air, holds it. "By the time you—I didn't—" He swallows, tries again. "I stopped caring about that. It just, didn't seem important any more. Like, I thought you were always going to be there, and I—I didn't want to know who I'd be without you. But I ended up finding out anyway."

Sam feels more than sees Dean tense beside him. "And?" His voice is carefully neutral.

Sam licks his lips, an old nervous tic. He has to get this right. "It makes this feel like a choice, you know? Being here. With you. I chose this. Because I know what the alternative is. I lived it. The whole safe, apple-pie thing. And now I—I'm just relieved I never have to be alone again." If his voice cracks on the last few words, he can't help it.

"You weren't alone. You had Dean Jr. You had friends."

Sam tries to smile, but his jaw trembles. "Alone. Without you. Same thing." He's not sure he can really make Dean understand. Dean's drive through Heaven was nothing like Sam's thirty-plus years on earth. And the companionship of a son, or even a lover, could never replace that of his brother. But then, Sam remembers, long ago he was the one who was dead and supposedly never coming back, and Dean tried to settle down with people who loved him, who could've been a family to him. It didn't take. So maybe he does understand.

"So," Dean starts, tentative, "what did you learn? About… who you are without me?"

Sam shrugs, feels the sand grind against the skin of his shoulders. "I was still me. The same inside. Just, missing you. I guess it means I was me all along." He pauses. "And I could still do good in the world. I could still love. I could… make choices. And nothing terrible ever happened because of them." He lets out a self-deprecating huff. "But it doesn't mean a single day went by that I didn't wish you were there."

The old pang goes through his chest again and he has to look at Dean, to remind himself. "Just to see you, standing in the doorway. Just hear your voice in the next room. To—smell you in the air after you walked by." He manages a weak chuckle at that, aware of how ridiculous he sounds. He never could have told his brother that when they were alive.

"Smell me?" Dean's voice is tinged with amusement, but it's gentle, not malicious.

Sam smiles. "I kept some of your shirts," he admits. It feels good to just say it. "Didn't wash them."

"Huh." Sam can feel Dean looking at him.

Eventually Dean resettles, gazing at the sky. "Well. It's like you said. You never have to be alone again."

And suddenly Sam's throat is tight and he's desperate. For what he can't tell. He looks at Dean, has to see him. He's right there, every inch of him, body just as toned and sturdy as the day he died. His body, which Sam burned, and yet which he can feel the warmth of next to him on the sand.

"God," he breathes. "Sometimes I still—I can't believe you're—"

Dean must hear the emotion Sam is trying so hard to push down, because he turns, lifts up on one elbow so he can bring a hand up to Sam's shoulder and squeeze. "Hey, hey," he soothes, just like he did when Sam was a child, just like when he broke his arm and Dean scooped him up onto the handlebars of his bike to take him to the hospital. _They're gonna patch you right up. There, that's not so bad, is it, Sammy?_

"I'm right here," Dean is saying. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

Sam's breathing is still ragged. "Can I—can I see it?"

Sam can just make out the confusion on his brother's features in the dark. Then comprehension and surprise flit over them before they resolve into something serious. He searches Sam's eyes, as if to be sure. Without a word, he turns around, lies on his stomach, exposing his back.

It's covered in sand but Sam can tell at a glance that it is smooth, whole. His breath catches. He sits up, reaches out a trembling hand. He almost fears that in touching, the illusion will crumble, Dean's body prove to be nothing but a mirage, and the memory— _cold, broken skin, dead, dead, dead_ —will come crashing back into the present, irrepressible.

He rests two fingers, feather light, on his brother's spine. Dean's muscles twitch, then still. He doesn't disappear. He doesn't morph into a corpse.

Carefully, reverently, Sam brushes the sand away from the center of his back. His skin is pale in the starlight, but not dull like it was in death. It's not taut and stiff with rigor mortis. It's soft, pliable, and most of all _warm_.

Sam molds his palm to the curve of Dean's spine, exactly where it was punctured so long ago. He can still see the wound in his mind's eye, ragged and gaping, mottled bruising at the edges. He caresses the flawless skin, lets its heat melt into him, feels the steady rise and fall of Dean's back with every breath. Dean shifts his head, as if trying to see what Sam's doing, but he doesn't speak.

It feels real, is the thing. Every bit as real as Sam remembers life feeling. He doesn't have the capacity to process that just now, to question the stuff they're made of. For now, this is enough. It is real in every way that matters. Sam's vision blurs, and a warm splash falls on the back of his hand.

On impulse, Sam drops his head and presses his lips to the site of the former wound. He lingers just long enough to take in his brother's warmth against his face, feel Dean's sharp intake of breath.

"Sam—"

"I had to clean it, you know." The words tumble out before he's aware he was going to speak. His face is inches from Dean's back, tears falling freely now, dripping from his nose to Dean's skin. "I had to—w-wash you. There was so much b-blood—"

Sam registers movement, can't see what's happening, and then Dean's face is right in front of him, his hands cradling Sam's head.

"I'm right here, Sam," he says, hoarse and fierce. "I'm right here."

He grabs Sam's hand, guides it to his chest and presses it over his heart. Just like when—only, it's not. Now, Dean's heartbeat is strong and steady against Sam's palm, not the weak fluttering thing he remembers. Sam sobs.

"You feel that? Feel that? This is me. It's me, Sam." And then Dean's arms are around him, pulling him in, chest to chest. Sam buries his face in his brother's shoulder and hangs on tight as he can.

"I'm not leaving you. Ever."

The words vibrate into Sam's body where they're pressed together. He lets himself be held, by _Dean_ , his brother, every bit as warm and real as in life. Only somehow more so, because they never held each other like this, and it's raw and terrifying and Sam never wants to let go, would crawl right under Dean's skin if he could.

 _I'm not leaving you. Ever._ For the first time, Sam knows it's true.


	2. Chapter 2

They drive for a long time after they've had their fill of the beach. Eventually, without making a conscious decision to, they find their way to the Roadhouse.

Bobby's on the porch, beer in hand. He greets Sam with a hearty grip to the shoulder and a wry "took you long enough" followed by a firm, sincere "well done, son." Sam doesn't miss the nod Bobby and Dean exchange, nor the look of pure contentment on his brother's face.

Inside they find Ellen and Jo, who greet them as though they've been expecting them. Jo has smiles and hugs for both of them—though it doesn't escape Sam's notice that she lingers just a little longer with her arms around Dean.

Ellen surprises them both with her own warm embrace. "Boys," she says, "I'd like you to meet my husband, Bill." She nods to a man behind the counter, who comes out to greet them with an outstretched hand and easy grin. Sam is forcefully reminded of his own father—a little shorter, more solid and barrel-chested, but with all the same rough edges and self-assurance. Strong, capable hands that give a hell of a handshake; day-old stubble, deep smile lines and crow's feet; practical, work-worn clothes, but well-looked after, neat and orderly, just like his regulation haircut. Bill carries himself with an ease that Sam thinks must bely his capacity for force. Sam's grateful that any former family grudges appear to be forgotten.

They all sit around a table sipping cold beers—Sam's first in Heaven, and he's not sure how it's possible, but it tastes better than any he ever had on earth. Ellen brings out a home-cooked meal, and it's only when it's right in front of him that Sam realizes he's ravenous. Sam and Dean gratefully scarf down the chicken and potatoes, roasted to perfection, and Ellen laughs and offers them seconds before they can lick their plates clean.

It's around that point that Sam notices, distantly, that some of the lines have disappeared from Dean's face, and it's not just his mood. He looks younger, by ten years or more. Sam observes the backs of his own hands, tanned and smooth, and thinks he probably does, too.

Dean, Jo, Bill, and even Bobby swap old hunting stories with gusto. Sam chimes in occasionally, correcting Dean's embellishments and filling in gaps, but mostly he's content to sit back and watch his brother in his element, eyes alight with the recalled adrenaline of the hunt. Of course, in the retelling, there's no stench of dank places and monster guts, no frozen-stiff fingers on late-night stakeouts, no mind-numbing terror at a near miss, no fearing the worst. Sam thinks he prefers this version, removed, all humor and glory. Seeing Dean with a proud grin, well-fed and safe, beats seeing him scraped up and bruised any day.

It strikes Sam that in Heaven, they are _safe_. No crises to be on high-alert for, no sudden misfortunes to catch them unawares. He feels it in his bones, a deep relaxation the likes of which he never knew in life, not even after leaving hunting far behind. He sends up a prayer of thanks to Jack, for this immense gift, for him and his brother. Sam watches Dean, basking in the warm companionship of old friends—and new, because Dean has apparently taken a shine to Bill already—and sends up a second thank you, because this is right, he thinks. A Heaven without walls. Dean deserves this.

Ellen, seeing that his thoughts have drifted, coaxes Sam back into the conversation. He thinks with a small smile that he deserves this, too.

When asked, he offers the others a few details about his life after Dean, but is relieved when they don't pry further. It still feels too raw to talk about.

He's not sure what number beer he's on—funnily, no matter how much he drinks, he seems to be maintaining a steady, barely-there buzz of warmth—when Ash makes his entrance from the backroom. He excuses his late arrival with a cursory comment about being immersed in some new theoretical mathematical model, because “the implications for discrete time and continuous time series up here are insane!” He pulls up a chair and nods at Sam and Dean, as casual as if they'd only just stepped out for a six-pack, and helps himself to giant pile of potatoes.

Later, Sam, Dean, Ash, and Jo migrate to the pool table. Sam and Dean quickly realize they have to be on their best game to beat the residents of Harvelle's. Jo and Ash have had plenty of time to practice. Still, in the end Sam and Dean eke out a victory. Dean raises his fists in triumph and insists on a high ten from his brother. Jo shakes her head with a long, fond look at Dean. Sam watches, sharp as a hawk, as Dean grins back at her over the pool table, gloating—and maybe a bit of something else.

But then Dean turns to Sam, nudges him with his shoulder, and asks, "Ready to get outta here? Quit while we're ahead and all that?" Sam hadn't even realized it was what he wanted until Dean said it. Sam's ready for it to be just the two of them again, for a while.

Back in the Impala, after goodbye hugs and handshakes and admonishments not to be strangers, Sam can't help but ask, "So, you and Jo?"

Dean shoots him a nonplussed look. "What about me and Jo?"

"I saw the way she was looking at you." He keeps his voice carefully neutral.

"Jo?" Dean asks, as though he's not sure he and Sam are talking about the same person.

"Just sayin', you could start something with her, if you wanted."

"Dude, you know she died like, twenty years younger than me, right?" When Dean says it, Sam notices that they've returned to what he thinks of as their normal appearances, the ages they were at Dean's death.

He shrugs. "If it mattered how old we were when we died, then… I'd be the older brother." He grins.

Dean snorts. "In your dreams."

Sam thinks he'll leave it at that. But a few minutes of winding mountain road later—Sam doesn't remember Harvelle's being near any mountains, but he's not questioning it—Dean speaks again.

"It's not like that, with Jo. She's like a little sister."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "A little sister you want to make out with?"

"Dude, gross." Dean pulls an exaggerated face. "And I never—you know we never—"

"I know how you felt about her, Dean."

Dean sighs. "Okay. So maybe things with Jo were a little more complicated than that. But…" He trails off, eyes trained on the road with a subtle frown. He shrugs. "I don't miss sex."

Sam nearly chokes. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"I dunno what to tell you, man. Haven't given it much thought, since I got here."

"Yeah but, given the opportunity…?"

"Look, don't get me wrong. Sex is… a great memory." Dean's eyes go hazy, a slow, dirty grin widening his lips, and suddenly Sam is sorry he pressed the issue. "Like, _really_ great."

"Spare me the details."

"Sure you don't want details? 'Cause right now I'm thinkin' 'bout this little redhead in Tallahassee with the roundest, perkiest pair of—"

"I get the picture."

"Nah, Sammy, I really don't think you do. I mean this chick _wrote_ the Kama Sutra. She could do this thing with her tongue—"

"Okay!" Sam says loudly. Time to put a stop to _that_. He can feel the flush in his cheeks, and he's not even sure why he's embarrassed, when he's been subjected to thousands of accounts of his brother's sexual exploits before. He supposes it has something to do with the reluctant fondness bubbling up in his gut. Dean's biting his lip, glancing at him slyly out the corner of his eye, and Sam feels a rush of giddiness. He shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself. Goddamn Dean and his complete lack of shame.

"Anyway," Dean concedes with a smirk, "what I'm sayin' is, it was great back then. But I sorta can't see myself going to all that trouble now. I mean, sex is… _messy_."

Sam wrinkles his nose. "Sometimes."

" _Always_ , if you do it right." Dean nods knowingly. "C'mon Sam, I know you know how to make a girl—"

"Dean!"

Dean chuckles, the smug bastard. "I will never forget the time up in Washington when I came back to the motel a little too early, after one of your lady friends had stayed the night, and I caught you tryna change the sheets and spare the poor maid. Cleanin' up after—what was it, Debbie?"

"Dani," Sam corrects automatically, then curses himself. His face is hot enough to fry an egg.

"So you remember too!" Dean smacks the steering wheel in triumph. "Even her name. Such a gentleman. You remember the name of every hook-up? 'Course, it helps if you can count them all on one hand—"

"Ha ha, very funny."

"I think so." He purses his lips in a self-satisfied way, then sighs with relish. "Yup, Sammy, that was a proud moment for me. Proof of your prowess right there on the sheets—"

"Ew, oh my God, please never say that again. And you know that is a really weird thing to be proud of your little brother for, right?" But Sam is laughing, gazing at Dean with something akin to awe at how _normal_ it feels. Their kind of normal. The awkward sex talk, Dean's ribbing, his embarrassing idea of flattery. That was always Dean's way of complimenting him—masked with teasing. Sam hasn't had this in so long. The familiarity of it is thrilling.

"Nonsense," Dean says. "Had to be sure you knew how to please a woman. Couldn't have my little bro tarnishing the Winchester name. That stuff matters, you know. Date walked out on me in the eleventh grade after she found out we were related."

"She did not."

Dean tilts his head. "All right, mighta been for other reasons. Damn, it's the ones that get away that stick with ya."

Sam observes him in amusement. Dean's eyes are distant, dreamy.

"You know, you sound awfully wistful for someone who's sworn off sex."

"I haven't sworn off shit. All I'm saying is I don't feel— _the need_." Dean glances at him. "I mean, what about you?"

"Are you asking about my sex drive?"

"Yeah." Dean sounds a little too nonchalant, the way he always has when prying into Sam's sex life.

"You know I died an old man, Dean. I haven't had sex in well over a decade."

Dean shudders. "Yet another reason to die young."

Sam knows he means it as a joke, but it feels like a punch to the solar plexus. He can't manage a smile.

Dean clears his throat, realizing his misstep. He course-corrects. "Well, I didn't wanna assume anything. Old people get up to some freaky stuff." The corner of Sam's mouth quirks up at that and Dean nods, satisfied. "So, that's a no, I guess?"

"No sex drive," Sam says. "As far as I can tell."

"Well, good."

"Good?"

"Yeah. No need to worry about—" Dean waves his hand and doesn't elaborate.

Sam can fill in the blank. _No need to worry about picking up women in bars or with dating apps or whatever they have in Heaven. No need to worry about jealousy. No need to worry about anything we can't get from each other. No need to worry about anything outside the two of us._

Sam nods. "Yeah. It is good."

***

They discuss going to visit Mom and Dad, decide they're not ready. They end up exploring the nooks and crannies of the countryside around the Roadhouse, within what Sam thinks of as a comfortable drive. They both understand, without needing to say it, that they're looking for a place to call their own.

Of course, in Heaven there's no real estate to worry about. No land ownership, deeds or titles. Always more than enough space, more than enough to share. _Imagine no possessions, I wonder if you can_. Sam hums to himself, and smiles at the irony of it.

"John Lennon? Really?" Dean shoots him a dirty look. "You know that song is about how heaven doesn't exist, right?"

"That's not really what it's about—"

"Whatever. If you're gonna hum in a fine American car," he pats the dashboard, "at least keep it American."

"Led Zeppelin is British."

Dean honest-to-god _pouts_. "I know that. But they're—honorary Americans."

"Uh-huh. Black Sabbath? British. Def Leppard? British."

"You're seriously gonna lecture me on classic rock? _Me?_ I dunno whether to be proud or kick you outta the car."

"Neil Young? Canadian. AC/DC? _Australian._ "

"Okay, okay, you know what I meant! Just none of that soft rock crap."

"No? 'Cause I think you could use a little Lennon. Your American chauvinism is showing." Sam grins. " _Imagine there's no countries,_ " he sings at the top of his voice. " _It isn't hard to do!_ "

Dean plants his whole hand over Sam's face and shoves him into the passenger window. Sam cackles.

" _Nothing to kill or die for!_ " His voice is muffled against Dean's palm. When he twists his head to peek through Dean's fingers, he catches him smiling.

***

They find the perfect spot. A clearing in the foothills, a flat patch of ground with a spectacular view of the plains below. The mountains shelter it on two sides, rolling in gentle folds of green up and away to distant, purple peaks.

They park the car in the clearing and get out to stretch their legs. The air is fresh and just brisk enough that Sam is glad for his jacket. He braces his hands on hips and leans back, looks up at the swaying tops of the mountain pines. They creak in the gentle wind, speaking the ancient tongue of trees. It's a fine place to spend eternity, Sam decides.

Dean starts planning immediately.

"A front porch, Sammy. Wrap-around. Not the fun kind—get your mind outta the gutter."

Sam snorts.

"But almost as good," Dean adds. "365-degree view. Matching rocking chairs for sippin' beers on."

"You're gonna get fat, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm countin' on it. Don't have to watch my cholesterol in Heaven."

"As if you ever did."

Dean ignores that and continues painting his picture. "Bay windows in the front. That'll be the living area. Kitchen over on that side—a big one, plenty of counter space—and next to that the bathroom."

Sam frowns. "Do we need a bathroom?" He hasn't used one since getting to Heaven. Once, after the Roadhouse, they peed on the side of the road. There had been something gratifying about it, the freedom and exposure to the open air. Sam suspects that had been the point more than satisfying a biological need.

"Two words, Sammy. Steam. Shower." Dean's face is deadpan.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah? Where are we gonna get the water, anyway?"

Dean frowns, then waves a hand. "It'll work out. Is this paradise or ain't it?"

"Okay. You planning on a toilet, too?" Sam asks, only a little sarcastic.

"Am I planning on a toilet?" Dean sounds downright offended. "Sammy, please tell me at least in your old age you learned to appreciate the simple pleasure of a morning shit."

Sam shrugs in acquiescence.

"Now, if you wanna spend your afterlife all constipated, that's your prerogative. Personally? I'm gonna be enjoying regular bowel movements."

Sam has to chuckle at that. "Yeah? Well, we're gonna need to eat a little more regularly too, then."

"We'll figure it out," Dean says confidently.

Sam has faith that he's right.

Dean stalks across the clearing, towards the mountain. Sam follows.

"And back here," Dean gestures, "the bedrooms."

Sam swallows. Bedrooms. Plural. Which makes sense, because they had their own rooms for years in the bunker. Sam appreciated having his own space, too, even if he'd never been a nester like Dean. It's just that since he arrived here, Dean's hardly been out of arm's reach. He should've known it wasn't always going to be that way.

He nods. "Right. Two bedrooms?" He's not sure why it comes out as a question.

"Two bedrooms," Dean confirms, and catches Sam's eye. "So we have one for guests."

Sam breathes a sigh of relief he'd never admit to. He smiles gratefully, and is even more grateful when Dean doesn't comment on it.

Dean nods and stands akimbo. "So, whaddya think, Sammy? Ideas? Requests? Rec room? Home gym?"

"A study would be nice. Maybe a library," Sam muses.

Dean makes a face like he's going to complain, but decides better of it. He shrugs. "If that's your thing." After a moment he adds, "What are you gonna study in Heaven?"

He sounds genuinely curious, so Sam gives him a genuine answer. "I have no idea yet. But I'll have a lot of time to catch up on my reading list."

Dean chuckles. "Nerd."

***

Bobby tells them about a little town, not too far off, where they can get any supplies Ellen and Bill can't lend them. Sam has a moment of panic over money for tools, but Bobby assures them they won't need money.

"Town" turns out to be a generous assessment—it's a one-road settlement, more like, with a grocery and a hardware store. Only, "store" isn't exactly accurate, either, because Bobby was right—they don't need money there. The friendly man behind the counter simply points them in the direction of what they're looking for and encourages them to keep it all for as long as they want, and feel free to return it when they're done.

They stop in the grocer's for food, but mostly for beer. Nothing is marked with a price. The woman at the checkout asks if they found everything all right and wishes them a good day without ringing them up.

Sam marvels at the existence of a place like this. He supposes that for some folks, Heaven is their hometown, tending to the mom-and-pop shop and never having to worry about bills. He wonders where the fresh produce and deli meats come from, if they just magically replenish themselves, or if there are really enough farmers in Heaven to sustain the whole population. Maybe people just consume less here, so the supply chain never runs dry. _Heaven gives you what you need._ Or maybe, he thinks, it makes sure you only need what you can get.

Jo, Bill, and even Bobby offer to help with construction. Sam and Dean take them up on it for laying the foundation, pouring the concrete. With Dean's experience, though, they're able to do much of the work themselves.

They spend their days sawing beams and hammering nails, their nights in the Impala. Dean in the front, Sam in the back, just as they spent so many nights on the road. The deep sleep after a day of hard labor is sweet and restorative, even cramped onto the bench seat. Sam's muscles are never sore the next day.

Sometimes, Dean opens the doors of the car and lets music blast from the speakers as they work. Other times, it's just them and the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional songbird.

The smell of autumn is on the air. An arrow of geese slices through the sky overhead every so often, their shadows racing like tiny swift creatures over the golden plains below. The house will be ready before winter.

The frame raising is another group effort. Ellen brings a grill in her truck and they turn it into an event, with hamburgers, potato salad, and everything. Even Rufus shows up, unannounced. He mostly stands back and watches, complaining his back can't take the strain of any heavy lifting.

"This is Heaven, ya idjit," Bobby tells him. "I know for a fact your back ain't so much as twinged since 2011."

"Oh, so now you're the grand arbiter of how chronic pain works in the afterlife, Bobby?"

"So it only acts up when it's convenient to ya, I see. Why'd you even bother showin' up?"

"I heard there'd be free beer."

"It's Heaven," Bobby repeats. "All the beer is free."

Sam can't help but smile as he picks bacon out of his potato salad and listens to them bicker.

"It ain't 'heaven,' Bobby," Rufus is saying. "How many times have I got to tell you we are in Gan Eden? The Garden. _Olam haba_ , the World to Come! Gentiles, huh. Can't teach 'em a damn thing."

"If you wanna claim you've got all the conflicting rabbinical literature on the afterlife all figured out, be my guest. I ain't touchin' that can o' worms, though. All I'm sayin' is, I ain't called myself a Christian since the day I met you, but 'Heaven' is good enough for me."

They get the frame up by sundown. There's more drinking and socializing, and then the others are driving off. Rufus says something Sam doesn't quite catch, about "Aretha sending her regrets," before exchanging a friendly handshake. Looks to Sam like Heaven—or Eden, or whatever it is—has softened the crotchety man up just a little. Not that he would dare say it to his face.

Sam and Dean stand side by side after the others have gone, gazing at the skeleton of their home to be. In the twilight, the wood beams cast shadows that stretch to the tree line. The shadows lengthen as they watch, then fade into the dark of night.

***

Bill Harvelle knows a guy who knows a guy who can help them with the plumbing, water, electric, everything, because this is Heaven and apparently that's how things work around here.

Sam thinks he's figured it out, more or less. Things that existed on earth, like Harvelle's and the Impala, come ready-made. Anything new must be built. Sam thinks that that's a sort of gift of its own. Dean is getting into it, learning all about the well water system, the septic tank, the geothermal unit and solar panels they plan to install. And Bill's friend-of-a-friend is more than happy to help, had a passion for building sustainable housing in his day, has done it more than once in his afterlife, too. It's all incredibly serendipitous, and worth every effort for the way Dean's eyes light up at the engineering of the pumps and wiring. He always did have a fascination and a knack for figuring out what made things tick. Sam thinks he could watch his brother forever just like this, bent over blueprints and schematics, tongue poking out in concentration as he makes notes and sketches alterations.

For a brief while, their little clearing is a whirlwind of exhilarating activity, strangers and friends coming and going, all lending a hand—and then it's just the two of them again. They can handle the finishing touches on their own.

Sam welcomes the physical labor, happy to exercise his youthful muscles. He's happier still to see Dean use his hands to make something rather than take it apart. To create rather than kill. He's good at it, lining up mitered corners and beveling edges with sure, steady motions. Sam wishes he'd gotten to see his brother like this more often, before.

The trees in the lower foothills have turned auburn, scarlet, and canary yellow by the time they're finishing up the siding. Sam shrugs off his over shirt, warm from exertion despite the nip in the air. He wipes sweat from his brow with the flannel—an old favorite, ripped to shreds long ago by a werewolf, but which he'd found intact along with some other clothes in his old duffel in the trunk.

Dean is humming Metallica and hammering nails in time with the tune. He's in his element, buzzing with energy and warmth, late autumn sun highlighting the broad planes of his shoulders. Sam is overcome.

He breathes deep, steps up behind his brother, and slips his arms around him. Dean stills, not alert or alarmed, but pliant. He lets Sam pull him into his chest and bury his nose in his shoulder. After a moment, Dean hooks the hammer into a loop on his tool belt and rests his arms over Sam's, finding his hands and lacing their fingers together.

Sam takes in a lungful of Dean and sighs. There's so much he wants to say in that moment. What comes out is a mumbled, "You smell the same." Steel and gun oil, smoke and pine. Dollar store shampoo, the simple cleanliness of unscented soap and detergent.

Dean's chuckle reverberates in Sam's chest. He rubs the back of his hand with his thumb. "What's this mood about?"

"Not a mood." Sam's mouth is crushed into the fabric of Dean's shirt, but he's confident Dean can decipher his words.

Dean just grunts in assent, and relaxes further into the embrace. It feels like a long time before he says, "You smell the same, too."

Sam smiles against his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Almond-y. Like that fancy shampoo you always used to hide from me."

It's Sam's turn to chuckle. "You mean that you used to steal from me."

Dean makes a noncommittal noise.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you share your fancy shampoo with me in Heaven?"

Sam's smile is so wide his cheeks ache. "Yeah, Dean." Then he snorts. "Know what I just realized? I haven't showered once. Not once. Heaven's weird, man."

"Yeah, and your hair's still all floofy."

"Floofy?"

"Mm-hm."

"You love it."

"Hm."

Sam smirks. It's as much of a confirmation as he's going to get. "Anyway, you were right about a bathroom. I'm looking forward to that shower."

"Told you. Water pressure," Dean moans, making it so purposely obscene Sam has to poke him in the ribs in retaliation. Dean laughs and squirms before settling again in Sam's arms. He tips his head back on his shoulder and closes his eyes.

Sam breathes in time with the rise and fall of his brother's ribs. Dean's heartbeat resonates in his chest. His work-rough thumb caresses his wrist bone. Sam drinks it all in, then starts to pull away.

Dean's hand closes around his wrist. "Stay."

So Sam does. Out of the corner of his eye he traces Dean's profile from his Adam's apple up to his smooth forehead. His gaze is distant, trained upwards at the sky.

"What are you thinking?" Sam asks, barely more than a whisper.

Dean looks as though he hasn't heard. But after a moment he says, "Thinkin' about putting a weather vane on the roof."

Sam slides his hand up until it rests over Dean's heart. He presses his lips to the stubble of his brother's cheek.

"Sounds perfect."

***

The first flurries fall the day they complete the house. They settle in, chop their own firewood, stack it on the porch.

There's an antique shop in town, a huge warehouse of a place—Sam wonders where so many antiques come from in Heaven—that they scavenge for whatever furniture they don't want to build themselves. Dean is especially pleased with the surprisingly comfortable couch they score, and the old record player and stereo he finds. He peruses the vinyl selection, and of course finds Zeppelin II and IV. Dean snags them along with a Crosby, Stills, and Nash and a Freddie King. Sam picks up an Elvis compilation, and then—he can't believe it when he spots it. Celine Dion's _Falling Into You_. Before he can hide it behind his back, Dean's at his elbow, one eyebrow arched in scorn.

"Really, dude?"

Sam purses his lips, considers denying that he wants it. Instead, he straightens his spine and says, "It won Best Album of the year in 1997."

He prepares for Dean's counterattack, for Dean to rip it from his grip—but it doesn't come. Dean's hand finds the back of his neck, and he looks at him, hard.

"You're hopeless, Sammy," he says with conviction.

The words tug at something in Sam's mind, and he smiles. "Yeah, my son used to tell me the same thing."

Dean's eyes widen with surprise for a second—still unused, perhaps, to the idea of Sam as a father—before they soften. He grins, claps Sam's shoulder. "Good for him."

Dean's gaze flicks down to the album and away again. He makes a subtle "gimme" gesture and adds Celine and Elvis to his stack.

That night they listen to the records one after another as they prepare dinner and eat on their new couch in front of a cheery fire. Celine is up last. To Sam's surprise, Dean doesn't leave the room when he places it on the turntable. He does wrinkle his nose, though.

Finally, Dean can't hold it back. "You actually like this stuff?"

"Yes, Dean, I actually like this stuff," Sam says patiently.

Dean grimaces, and Sam can see the physical effort it takes to restrain himself from further derision. Sam snorts into his chili.

There's a soft roll of drums and a Spanish guitar starts up. The titular track.

_And in your eyes I see ribbons of color  
I see us inside of each other  
I feel my unconscious merge with yours  
And I hear a voice say, "What's his is hers."_

A memory floats up, unbidden. It's Jess, as she was shortly after they met. Before she let her hair grow out. All confidence and charm, glowing under the string lights in her apartment, the one she had before they moved in together. The house party where Jess had played this album on CD and then kissed him sweet and slow for the first time.

"This was Jess's favorite song," Sam says softly.

It occurs to him that most of the music he holds dear he inherited from someone else. It's all right by him. He's never been one of those people who defined themselves by their musical taste. Not like Dad and Dean, not like Jess. Music for him was always tied up with the people it reminded him of. It's why he couldn't touch hard rock when he was at Stanford, nor after Dean died. Not until Jr. had started listening to his uncle's old tapes.

He glances over and finds Dean sitting perfectly still, staring down at his hands.

Sam knows where Dean's gone in his mind. He's back in that time, too, when Sam was in a world so foreign and distant he might as well have been on another planet. Probably thinking about what Sam had wanted then. The future that had burned along with the woman he loved.

"Dean," Sam says gently, because he wants his brother with him here and now, not dwelling in that bleak past. _I must have stood outside your dorm for hours._ Sam knows. God, he _knows_. As if he could have ever forgotten.

Dean inhales sharply. His eyes focus on Sam, and Sam sees everything, despite his carefully impassive expression. The hurt, the acceptance.

"You ever think about finding her?" Dean asks, neutral.

Sam blinks in surprise. "No. What would I even say? I'm not the boy she fell in love with, Dean."

The twist of Dean's mouth is doubtful.

Sam sighs. "I mean… maybe, eventually, I wouldn't mind seeing her. But I don't need to. I think, just knowing she's up here… It's enough. It's good, Dean."

After a long moment, Dean nods. "Okay."

They're seated about a foot apart, but suddenly even that is too far for Sam. He reaches out, lets his fingertips alight on Dean's shoulder. He's grateful when some of the tension drains from it.

"Dean," he says again.

"Mm?"

He's not sure how to express it, but he owes it to his brother to try. "You know I don't regret it, right?"

Dean flinches, so subtly Sam might have missed it if he weren't touching him.

"Regret what?"

"All of it. Our lives together."

Dean gives a half-smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "C'mon, Sammy. I know all that. It's ancient history."

Sam tightens his grip on Dean's shoulder. "No, it's different now. It's more than that."

Dean turns his gaze on him, expectant, cautious.

"If I hadn't lived that life," Sam begins, slow, picking out his words, "if I had just—continued on, with Jessica. Gotten married, become a lawyer… I wouldn't be here now. With you. You probably would've been dead in a ditch before you hit thirty and we never would have—" He has to stop, swallow down the lump in his throat.

Dean softens, grasps Sam's shoulder in return. "I know, man."

"No, but it—I didn't know, Dean. I didn't know, before, what I would be missing out on. Y'know? So, I wouldn't trade a thing. Because if I did—who knows where I'd be now? Who would I be sharing Heaven with? Who would _you_ be sharing with?"

Understanding unfurls over Dean's features. His eyes shine with awe in the firelight.

"That thought," Sam continues, " _terrifies_ me. I mean, if I'd gotten what I wanted back then? Or if I'd chosen—"

Dean stops him before the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes can fall. "You didn't," he says. "You didn't choose different, Sam. You're here because… because you chose to be. Just like you said." He finishes soft, reverent.

Sam lets out a huff of air, tight smile on his lips. "Came pretty close. More than once."

"Doesn't matter. Here we are."

Sam nods, wills back the tingling in his sinuses. Breathes deep.

After a space, Dean says, "Me too, just so you know." Sam looks at him, puzzled, and he adds, "The being terrified thing." His eyes are trained on the fire now. "I mean, there were plenty of times I wasn't sure whether…" He withdraws his hand from Sam's shoulder and clears his throat. "Just, seems almost too good to be true."

Sam looks at Dean's hand, resting purposeless and awkward in his lap. He smiles, shakes his head, pulls Dean's hand into his own so they rest on the couch between them. Dean glances at him, eyebrow raised.

"It is true, though," Sam says. "You're allowed to have this, Dean."

Dean stares at him. It takes Sam a moment to notice the tips of his ears have gone pink. "You are such a sap, you know that?"

Sam's smile broadens. "Well, yeah. Have you heard the music I like?" He nods to the turntable where Celine is crooning _don't wanna be all by myself anymore…_

Dean rolls his eyes. He untangles their hands, only to lift his arm in invitation. "C'mere."

Sam closes the distance between them.

***

When Sam was young, on the rare occasions they were lucky enough to land at a motel with a pool, he and Dean would sneak out sometimes to swim in the middle of the night. They didn't own swimsuits, so daytime was out of the question. They swam naked under the stars. No splash fights, no racing. There was only so much they could do without making too much noise. One of their games was to see who could hold their breath the longest at the bottom of the deep end. Sam suspected this was Dean's way of tricking him into a training exercise, but if so Sam had to give him credit. His brother knew he never could back down from a challenge.

And Sam had been good at it. So good that one time Dean, after resurfacing, had dove back down to tug urgently at his arms. What Dean didn't know was how content Sam was down there in the muted darkness, feeling that nothing could reach him save the light of the distant stars, like so many pinpricks in the framed patch of sky overhead.

Sam feels like he's drifting up towards the surface, towards those pinpricks, as he wakes on the couch, still snug against Dean's side. Dean's arm is a comforting weight around his shoulders. _Safe. Loved. Home._

Sam isn't sure if he's really awake or whether this is a dream. The couch has grown larger, or they've grown smaller. The fire has died to glowing embers. He looks at Dean, and in the dim light makes out soft, round features he hasn't seen for decades, save in the few photos they owned. Dean appears as he was on the cusp of puberty. He is fast asleep.

Sam fits perfectly under his arm. He winds small fingers into the hem of Dean's shirt, pillows his head on Dean's chest, and slips back under.

***

They bring their sleeping rolls in from the car and let them sit in the bedroom, barely used. Sleep, after all, is optional. Besides, Dean mentioned that he planned to build them beds, so Sam waits. Until he realizes Dean is stalling.

Sam decides to hell with it, he's not going to beat around the bush. He puts down his book—from the nearby town's incredibly well stocked library—and steps out onto the porch, where Dean is in the process of staining their newly built kitchen table.

"Y'know, our bedroom would be a lot more comfortable if I had a real bed to rest my head on," Sam says.

Dean looks up. "You sleepy, Sammy?"

"No. Just thought you'd get to that before worrying about putting a stain on the table."

"Place to eat seems a bit more important than a bed. Beds."

Sam notes the slip, how Dean stares stubbornly at the brush in his hand, not meeting his eyes.

" _A_ bed," Sam repeats. "Wait. Is that what this is about? You wanna sleep together?"

Dean fumbles the brush. "Christ, you gotta say it like that?" A furious blush colors his cheeks.

"So that _is_ what it's about."

"Not like _that_."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I know, Dean. But, you could've just told me. It's no big deal."

Dean snorts. "Yeah? 'Cause, y'know, enough people in life thought we were…" He gestures awkwardly between them.

"Together?"

"Yeah. _That_."

Sam can't believe his brother sometimes. "This is Heaven, Dean. I really don't think that's going to matter here."

Dean purses his lips in what Sam thinks of as his pissy look. "How many siblings do you think are spending eternity together?"

Sam is nonplussed. "Does that bother you?" he asks incredulously.

"It's not normal, Sam."

Sam is fairly certain he means more than just sharing Heaven. "Since when have we been normal?"

Dean heaves a sigh, glances away. "Yeah, but—I don't know." He drags a hand through his hair. "I mean, it's not normal even for us. We never—we always had our own beds. Before. Whenever we could."

Sam narrows his eyes. "But that's not what you want now," he prompts.

Dean struggles with himself a moment, then deflates. "It's like… every time I think about starting on the beds there's this, mental block, or something. All I can think about is… when we were little, y'know? How we used to…"

Sam remembers. Hazy impressions of Dean's warmth and solidness against him under the covers. It might be his earliest memory. Sam would crawl into Dean's bed whenever he couldn't sleep or had a bad dream, until Dad put a stop to it when he was eight. After that, it was only when they had to, when Dad wouldn't splurge on an extra room.

Sam nods, recalls waking up in Dean's arms on the couch, comfortable and warm and right.

"You know," he says, aiming for a reasonable tone, "co-sleeping with family members has been really common for most of human history. Still is in some cultures. It was really only with the rise of the middle class after the Industrial Revolution—"

"Okay, Poindexter." Dean rolls his eyes, and yeah, that was sort of the point. Get Dean out of his head. Sam's mouth curls into a fond smile.

Dean looks at him, brow pinched in doubt. "So, what, you're fine with it? Just like that?"

"Yeah, Dean."

He doesn't look convinced.

Sam turns his gaze out to the vista, the flats below dusted with frost. "Look," he says. "I've got this theory. About how things work here." Dean is silent, so he continues, "I don't think you can want anything—like, really want—that you're not supposed to have. I think, if you need it, this place will give it to you."

Dean stares at him. "What's that got to do with beds, dude?"

Sam tilts his head. _C'mon._ "You're not stupid, Dean."

Dean purses his lips, his expression guarded. "So, what, we're _meant_ to have one bed? Why would Heaven want us to—"

"It's not Heaven, Dean. It's us."

Dean shakes his head. "It's not like it's that big a deal—"

"You're right. It's not. So stop making it one and just build the bed, Dean. And, y'know, if you want something… just tell me. It'll be for the best."

Dean examines the bristles on his brush. "Sure."

Sam sighs, sucks his cheek. He supposes it's not fair of him to put it all on Dean. "And I'll try to do the same," he offers.

Dean meets his eyes, still cautious, questioning.

Sam steels himself. He knows what Dean's waiting for. "I want it too," he says, all in a rush, and okay, it is a little harder to admit than he expected. His face heats. "One bed."

Dean holds his gaze a moment. Then he cracks a grin. "We are so not normal."

Sam smiles back as relief floods through him.

"Grab a brush and gimme a hand with this." Dean nods at the table. "The sooner we finish our table the sooner we get to our bed."

***

They still rarely sleep. The days linger, endless lazy mornings, drawn-out twilights. Long evenings by the fire, sipping beers, listening to records, reading books. When they do go to bed, it's by mutual, tacit agreement.

They'll lie side by side on their hand built bed, elbows and knees occasionally brushing. Sometimes they talk, exchanging confidences in the dark like when they were little. And when they feel like it, they drift off. Once in a while Sam awakes with his head on Dean's chest, or with Dean's arm flung over his torso. Sometimes, he catches sight of his brother as a child while he's fast asleep. Sam knows in some vague, distant part of his mind that he is a child again, too. But he's too present in those moments, too enraptured of Dean's slumbering, peaceful features, too lulled by the comfort of his arms, to give it much thought.

***

They get to know the woods around their cabin like the back of their hands. There's a creek about half a mile up the hill that leads to a small lake tucked into the folds of the foothills. Sam likes to go there on his runs, take a loop around before heading home. He's always preferred running in the winter. The cold air is invigorating. Makes him feel—for lack of a better word— _alive_.

Dean goes fishing. He's good at it, so they have a steady supply of fresh trout for dinner. The smell of fish frying and the sound of Dean humming drifts out of the kitchen on a near nightly basis. Sometimes Sam stops reading just so he can listen and let the scent envelop him.

The early-winter weather lasts a good while, leaving the grass frost-kissed in the mornings and thawed by sunset. Then, all at once, true winter arrives and blankets the earth in over a foot of snow. Of course, they have plenty of firewood stacked, plenty of food stocked. They won't be driving anywhere for a while.

Feather-soft flakes are still drifting down when they step outside to take in the landscape. The woods are silent, every sound swallowed up by the snow save the crunch of their footsteps and puffs of their breath.

Sam takes it in, the icing on the trees, the brilliant, shocking whiteness of it all. Then he looks at Dean.

His face is upturned and he blinks as snowflakes catch on his eyelashes. He smiles, then opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue like a kid.

The thought strikes Sam that, if he could paint, this is what he'd capture. This moment of Dean, stark against the otherworldly backdrop of pristine winter. Sam's not sure how he could do it justice, though, how he could possibly convey the joy of the image, palpable as a physical force. Maybe an abstract could do it. A red circle on a white background. Something like that. Vibrant, vital. Alive. Like it could leap right off the canvas.

Sam's so lost in his mental picture he doesn't register it when Dean leans down and scoops up a handful of snow. It's already flying straight at his face by the time he realizes what's happening, and it's too late to dodge.

Dean doubles over laughing. "Man, you've really let your reflexes go to shit, Sammy!"

Sam wipes his face and scrubs under his collar at the snow, freezing cold against his skin. "Oh, it's on!"

He lunges forward. Dean sidesteps. Sam twists around, manages to get a grip on Dean's jacket, stuffs a handful of snow down the back. Dean yelps, curses, and tackles Sam to the ground.

They wrestle, shove snow in each other's faces, eventually untangle themselves and get enough distance for proper snowball throwing. They dart between trees, hiding, ambushing. It's full on tactical warfare.

While Sam's making more ammo, Dean sneaks up from behind and gets him pinned with a knee to the small of his back. Sam cries uncle, twists around so he's looking up at Dean.

Dean's cheeks are ruddy with cold and exertion and there's a shit-eating grin on his face—and he looks about eighteen years old. Sam looks down at his own body, scrawny and dwarfed by his brother's. "No fair," he huffs.

Dean stands and holds out a hand. "No such thing as a fair fight, little brother."

Sam remembers that maxim from childhood, one of Dad's that Dean was fond of quoting. Sam snorts and takes the offered hand. Dean pats his shoulder and turns towards the cabin.

Sam lets him get a few paces ahead before snatching up a snowball and launching it at the back of his head. It connects with a solid _thwump_.

Dean's shoulders rise to his ears. He turns slowly on Sam. "You little—"

Sam is breathless with laughter. "No such thing as a fair fight!"

He barely gets out the words before Dean tackles him again. Sam squirms out of his grasp—being small and wiry has its advantages—makes a break for it—hits a patch of ice and goes down.

He lands hard on his elbow. A heartbeat later it's throbbing in that way that means it will bruise for sure. Dean's back on him, yelling "Karma, bitch!" but then he sees the grimace of pain on Sam's face. His demeanor shifts in an instant.

"Sammy? What's wrong? You hurtin'?"

Sam holds his elbow. "Just landed sorta hard. No big deal."

In their hunting days, a bump like that wouldn't have even registered as an injury. Dean treats it as one now, though. "Let's get you inside," he says, and pulls Sam to his feet. He keeps a consolatory hand between Sam's shoulder blades as he guides him back to the house. Sam doesn't mind a bit.

Dean fusses, gets Sam out of his wet, cold clothes and into warm sweats, props him up on the couch with extra cushions so he can elevate his elbow. Dean sucks his teeth in sympathy when he sees the purpling, swollen bruise. "Man, Sammy, you really did a number on yourself."

Dean brings him painkillers and a towel full of ice. Sam winces at the cold as Dean applies the compress. He feels like Dean is making a bigger deal of it than he needs to, but it does hurt.

Sam frowns. "Didn't know you could get hurt in Heaven."

Dean looks at him, bottle green eyes wide and youthful. He smiles and brushes Sam's hair back from his face. "So I can take care of you, dummy."

Sam is lost for a moment in Dean's soft, fond gaze. A rush of gratitude and affection fills his chest, makes him buoyant. Suddenly his elbow doesn't hurt so much. _So I can be taken care of by you_.

Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair again. "I'll make a fire. You hungry?"

By afternoon Sam's elbow is only a little tender to the touch. But he plays it up and lets Dean baby him for the rest of the day.

It's sort of nice, being teenagers again, going about their domestic routine. It reminds Sam of the rare times they were able to rent a house for a while, when Dad left them alone for a couple weeks and it was just him and Dean. Sam relished those breaks from the routine, when Dean was out from under Dad's thumb, could be a big brother rather than a lieutenant. Something changed then about the way he held himself, just a little more ease to the slope of his shoulders. Of course, he could still be an ass, nag at Sam over chores and Dad's to-do lists, or else dump him to go make out with his girlfriend of the week. But Sam's best memories of Dean at that age came from when it was the two of them, no hunt to worry about, just a little slice of normal. Their kind of normal. Looking after their little house, going to school or to work, making each other dinner and ending the night in front of the TV.

Sam remembers the winter he was fifteen, in upstate New York—Dad had a way of choosing the most inopportune locations at the most inopportune times—when he and Dean had been snowed in for a couple days. No school, no work. No girlfriends. They watched back-to-back reruns of M*A*S*H and ate popcorn for dinner. They wrestled on the living room floor, more for fun than for training, and played Texas hold 'em with M&Ms for poker chips. Dean even let Sam have his first beer, which made him so sleepy he'd dozed off on Dean's shoulder in the middle of Delta Force 2. Dean let him sleep, but hadn't let him live it down for months.

In the years after that, Sam would think of those days with longing, as things grew more and more strained between him and Dad, as his resentment grew towards Dean for his silence at their arguments. For his absence. Dean was so often away, either with Dad on a hunting trip or just on his own, leaving Sam and Dad to circle around each other like two bulls ready to charge. Sam knew that Dad sent Dean away sometimes, that he didn't choose to go, but Sam couldn't help the anger he felt at his brother for leaving him alone. Not any more than he could help the anger born of blind terror that every time Dean left, it would be the last time he'd see him alive. In the end, Sam felt like he'd lost Dean long before he boarded the bus for California.

He looks at Dean now, sitting at the other end of the couch with Sam's feet in his lap, nose buried in a battered copy of _Cat's Cradle_.

"Hey, Dean."

"Mm?"

Sam doesn't say anything immediately. Dean glances up from his book. "Need something? More ice?"

Sam shakes his head.

Dean searches his face for signs of something off, something he can make better.

"Just. Glad you're here," Sam says.

Dean blinks. He rests a hand on Sam's ankle, rubs it with his thumb. "'Course I'm here, Sammy."

Something shifts in Dean's eyes as they hold each other's gaze. A deepening of understanding, perhaps. Or just another instance of being lost in a moment that stretches on, and on…

Sam blinks. The fire has died and Dean is stretching, cracking his spine. "Bedtime, Sammy."

***

It's ice fishing season and they're sitting on camping chairs out on the frozen lake, passing a flask of whiskey between them for warmth.

Sam is keeping Dean company, no rod of his own. He's content despite the cold. Whiskey in his belly, his brother at his side, perfect expanse of uninterrupted blue overhead. The silence is peaceful as they wait.

When Dean finally gets a bite, he reels it in quickly. A rainbow trout, beautiful eight-pounder, thrashing and showing off flashes of blue and green as its scales catch the light.

Dean holds it down on the ice in a firm grip. "Sorry, gorgeous," he says, and stabs into its brain with a pocketknife. He makes deep incisions behind each gill and throws it in the cooler to bleed out.

Dean looks down at his hands, stained red with fish blood. After a moment, he picks up a handful of snow and uses it to scrub them clean.

It strikes Sam that he's grown unused to seeing Dean kill.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Dean asks, "You think it counts, here? Think that fish was alive in any way that matters?"

Sam pauses. "I don't know."

Dean grunts. "I mean, probably not, right? 'Cause what the hell would that make us? It's not like we _have_ to eat."

"But it's nice to." Sam's grown fond of their dinner routine.

Dean chuckles wryly. "Yeah, well, it'd be _nice_ if Heaven was full of bacon double cheeseburgers." He taps his fingers on his knee, a nervous tic. "But not if I gotta kill for it."

Sam squints at his brother. "Does it bother you? The fish?"

Dean tilts his head to look at him. "You like fish dinner?"

Sam hesitates. He knows that, even now, Dean would do anything for him. No matter if it makes him uncomfortable.

Then again, they are in Heaven. Sam has faith in this place. What had he told Dean? _If you want something… just tell me. It'll be for the best._

He smiles. "You make a mean fish fry."

Dean grins back. "Then a little fish blood don't bother me none."

Sam believes him. He thanks Jack, again, for this Heaven. A Heaven where the only blood on Dean's hands is from trout.

Sam had decades to imagine what sort of life he and Dean would have led, if things had gone just a little differently. If that vamp had pushed him at a slightly different angle. If Dean had taken one step to the side. If Sam had been a few seconds faster. So many ifs, all useless.

Still, Sam couldn't help but imagine. He knows they would have kept hunting. No matter what vague mentions of early retirement Dean made, Sam knows his brother would have been too restless, always looking for the next evil thing that needed killing, the next person who needed saving. He never could have had this, this peace and simplicity, in life.

Sam thinks, not for the first time, just how lucky they are. They get another chance. All thanks to Jack. So many things had to happen exactly as they did to get to here. If a single one of them had been different, he and Dean would still be under Chuck's thumb, in a Heaven of nothing but dusty memories. It scares him, sometimes, how narrowly they scraped out this victory.

"You think about Jack ever?" he asks, eyes on the motionless line disappearing down into the hole in the ice.

Dean shifts in his seat. "'Course." Then, "What about Jack?"

"Just, how lucky we got with him. It could've gone wrong at any step of the way, but instead… we're here."

Dean is silent a moment. "Yeah. You mean I coulda screwed it up even more than I did."

Sam narrows his eyes, looks at his brother. "No, that's not what—"

"I wanted to kill him, Sam. And then I wanted him to kill himself."

"Dean, you didn't know—"

"Neither did you. You didn't know how things would turn out. But you never gave up on that kid." Dean's lips twitch, as if recognizing the absurdity of calling the most powerful entity in the universe "that kid." He shakes his head. "All I'm sayin' is, this"—he waves his hand as if to indicate the whole of Heaven—"is all thanks to you, man."

Sam frowns. "It wasn't just me, Dean." Dean raises an eyebrow. "I mean it. You think I could've done it without you? Or Cass? Y'know, Jack loved you. _Loves_ you. You helped raise him, even if things got… complicated." He lets out an incredulous huff. His voice is softer when he adds, "And how many times over would I be dead if it weren't for you? I never would've had the chance to be _anything_ to Jack if you had given up on me."

Dean purses his lips, eyes on the ice. Even in death, he can be so goddamn stubborn.

Sam sighs. He thinks, as he often did in life, of all the times he died or came near it. The times he wasn't ready, and the times he thought he was. It hurts, knowing what his survival cost him and Dean, and those around them. But then, he thinks of everything he would have missed, if Dean had ever done the smart thing, the normal thing, and let him go.

"Maybe it's selfish of me," he says, half to himself, "because the things you did… no one asked you to. No one had the right. Hell, you know I didn't agree with all of it. But… I am grateful for my life, Dean. So, thank you. For making sure I _had_ a life. I never really got the chance to say that." He nods, takes a shaky breath.

Dean has gone carefully still beside him. Sam continues, "I mean, without you? I'd have died in my twenties or thirties. The life we built together…" He closes his eyes a moment. "Never would've been a father. Chuck would still be in charge, we'd be…" He stops, unable to articulate his hopelessness at the prospect.

"It's not selfish, Sam," Dean says after a moment, voice low. He pauses. "And you don't have to thank me for that. 'S my job."

An old, familiar pang goes through Sam's core. "No, Dean. It was never your job."

Dean levels a suspicious squint at him.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't have done it. I'm trying to thank you because you didn't have to."

Dean searches Sam's face. Looks away. "Like you said, though. Did plenty you shouldn't thank me for."

Sam huffs. "Like I didn't?"

Dean just shakes his head, tight-lipped.

They've had versions of this conversation before. In life, after Chuck, they finally had the space and perspective to talk out some of the worst hurts and regrets. The difference is that now, Sam has had decades to consider his brother's choices. When Sam reached Dean's eternally frozen age, and surpassed it; when he had a son of his own to care for; then at last he could glimpse the edges of something so vast he hadn't been able to make out the shape of it when he was younger, caught up in its middle, enveloped by it. The shape of Dean's love.

Sam always knew it couldn't be summed up by brotherhood, nor even the single-minded devotion of a parent. It was what spurred Dean to make decisions that Sam never would have, not for his brother, not for his own son. Not because Sam loved less—only differently. Sam isn't angry at Dean for those decisions any more, though. He understands. Forgiveness is a choice, one Sam gladly made in life for his own benefit. Understanding, though, can't be chosen. It is or it isn't. As it turned out, living to an old age helped Sam understand many things. Time was like distance, like climbing a mountain and looking down from a great height. Seeing the past laid out below, so clear in its design from that bird's eye view.

As an old man, when Sam thought of his brother, he often pictured him trying to hold sand in an open-fingered fist. Dean was always losing the things he clung to hardest. No matter how fiercely he fought, how fiercely he loved, he couldn't stop it. He blamed himself, resolved to fight and love more fiercely, as if that could keep the sand from slipping between his fingers. It wasn't until Chuck was gone that Dean learned to cup his hands instead.

Sam takes a deep breath. Maybe it was naïve of him to hope they were past this conversation, on things he's long since come to terms with. After all, Dean didn't have the benefit of decades to process.

Sure enough, when Dean breaks the silence, it's with a soft, "I'm sorry, Sam. Not proud of the way I treated you sometimes."

Sam's instinct is to push back, but he tamps it down. Maybe Dean needs to say it.

"I forgave you long ago," he reminds him gently. "Besides, whatever you're thinking about right now? Whatever you're remembering? That was just our lives, man. Bad breaks, one after another. Situations with no good options. The stress of the job. It affected me, too." Sam shakes his head. "And anyway, what about all the good? When we weren't caught up in demons and angels and God. When we could just be us."

Dean still has a brooding look, so Sam presses on. "You were always"—he smiles to himself—"you were better at that stuff than I was. Kicking back, enjoying life. Cheering me up when I needed it. When I wasn't being a stubborn ass. You'd make the perfect burger, bring me a beer, suggest a movie. Something to get me to unwind because I didn't know how to. I was always so awkward when I tried to do the same for you," he says with a wry tone.

The corner of Dean's mouth tugs up. "Yeah, looking up strip club reviews online was a little desperate."

Sam chuckles, allows himself to relax. He's cracked through the shell. "We had some good times, Dean."

Dean considers him. "Yeah."

Sam offers a little smile. "Happiest times of my life," he adds. Before he suffered the worst loss of all. Before he missed his brother like a phantom limb, a pain for which there was no remedy.

Dean is silent, solemn.

"Look," Sam says. "With all the shit that got dealt to us, neither of us could be at our best all the time. But here, we can be. And I'm saying that this"—he gestures around them—"means that it was all worth it. This Heaven isn't just for us. It's for everyone. We both did things we're not proud of, Dean. But this—doesn't it feel like some sort of absolution?"

Dean peers at the tree line edging the lake. "I don't know about that."

A quiet sigh of defeat passes Sam's lips.

Then Dean speaks again. "Maybe we don't need absolution."

Sam looks at him, confused.

"Maybe that's not the point. Maybe this place is just meant to give us peace." He meets Sam's eyes. "We're dead," he says baldly. "What does it matter? Maybe we're meant to just, let that all go. Forget about blame and guilt and excuses. Just be here, now."

A chill passes through Sam, reaches his bones. He thinks of being dead. He thinks of being eternal. For just a moment, it's all too terrifyingly incomprehensible. But then he finds his brother's eyes. They're steady, calm. So deep Sam could lose himself in them. The thought isn't unappealing.

He licks his cold-chapped lips, swallows. "Maybe," he says.

Dean turns back to the fishing line.

They're silent for a stretch. Sam listens to the gentle wind in the pines, the chorus of creaking.

Dean breaks the quiet first. "You know I didn't wanna die, right?" His gaze is still trained on the hole in the ice. Patient. Watchful. "I mean," he continues, "I loved my life. I did, Sam. It wasn't perfect, but… I had you."

All at once Sam's throat closes up. His vision blurs.

"I didn't want to leave you," Dean whispers, and now Sam can hear the emotion behind it. "But, uh, if you'd died on the job"—he clears his throat—"I woulda never forgiven myself. Even if we went out together. Y'know, Butch and Sundance. I woulda felt like I failed."

Sam presses his lips together, nods. Feels a hot tear mark a trail down the side of his nose.

He draws a deep breath. "Y'know, at first I was—sometimes I was angry at you. For making me promise not to bring you back. Making me promise to keep going." He can't keep the tremble out of his voice. "I didn't want to. I said you could go but I wasn't ready."

Dean's eyes shine with remorse. "I know."

The tears flow silent down Sam's face. Dean stands, drags his chair right up next to him. He sits, wraps an arm around Sam's shaking shoulders. Leans in until his face is pressed against Sam's damp cheek.

"It's okay, little brother." Dean's breath is warm on Sam's skin. "Let it all out. Let it all go."

***

Spring comes and the earth thaws. They plant a garden.

Sam fills row upon row with English cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, chard, escarole, herbs. Chopped salad becomes a regular addition to their meals. Sam is pleased when even Dean can't turn his nose up at fresh vegetables from their own garden. He still calls it rabbit food, but helps himself to seconds every night once he realizes Sam isn't going to rub it in.

Dean plants flowers. Pink and red zinnia and yellow and orange marigolds flourish along the sides of the house. He erects trellises for blue and purple morning glories and white moonflowers that perfume the night air.

Some days they tend to the garden morning till evening. Their skin glows with a healthy tan but never burns. Dean's freckles multiply over the bridge of his nose.

Sam likes the smell of the soil, the feel of it, moist between his fingers. It reminds him of the garden he planted when his son was still a child and would spend Sunday afternoons helping him pull weeds. The memory warms him like the sunbeams on his back.

This garden is different, though. It's larger and far more bountiful. Pests are never a concern. And now, Sam can listen to his brother hum as he works.

They wash their dirt-caked hands when they come in for the evening. Dean only half-heartedly scrubs under his nails. Sam finds himself staring at them often. Little crescents of fertile earth at his brother's fingertips.


End file.
